


The Bargain

by Mud_Lark



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Dark Magic, Disturbing Themes, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Halloween, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Psychological Horror, Whump, Whumptober
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-11-15 03:03:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20859167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mud_Lark/pseuds/Mud_Lark
Summary: Thursday must make a horrific decision in order to save his bagman's life.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [imaginationtherapy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginationtherapy/gifts).

> I've challenged myself to do a writing sprint with this fic, so it will be VERY unpolished and a bit free form but the goal is to post a short chapter a day until it's done. I figure nobody would mind new Endeavour fic to read over their morning coffee, no matter how slapdash, eh? :-)
> 
> Also, fair warning: the plot is going to be DARK and bloody. "A penny dreadful of a plot!" But it's October, so now's the time for the macabre, right??

Fred Thursday’s memory kept coming back to that conversation, turning it over and over, an exhausting terrible loop of words shouted in anger and impatience.

“Let it go, Morse.” He could hear himself say it again and again. Fed up, exasperated. “Let it go, for God’s sake.”

  
The boy’s pale face had been tight with frustration, pink to the tips of his ears with indignation. “How? How do you expect me to do that?”

  
“You have to learn to be satisfied with a decent outcome. We wouldn’t even have got this far if it weren’t for you. You’ve done your bit ten times over.”

  
“The job’s not done. Prudence Hollowell still hasn’t got justice.”

  
Thursday exhaled, shaking his head. The veteran copper was too old for talk of Justice, for hallowed goals and lofty principles. He’d long ago made his peace with the sacrifice of idealism in the name of results. If he was honest with himself, he was more than a little surprised that Morse still had not got that far. At this rate, the boy never would.

  
A Shrewsbury College student had gone missing and was later found dead. It was only Morse’s critical eye that had identified the case as a murder, and it was only Morse’s careful research that had linked the death to a pattern involving nine other women who had died mysteriously in Oxfordshire over the past decade. There was a subtle, dangerous serial killer in their midst, and none of Thames Valley had been any the wiser.

  
Morse’s peers received this bombshell in the same way they always did one of Morse’s discoveries: first with denial, then with consternation and ridicule, finally with stony acceptance that the detective sergeant was, as usual, entirely correct.

  
Morse - chipping away with a careful, workmanlike diligence that was frankly uncharacteristic of him - had finally led them to their chief suspect: Prof. Mortimer Engel, an eccentric but eminent professor of human anatomy. Engel was due to be charged with the murder of nine of ten of those women in the morning.

  
But Prudence Hollowell’s name would not be on the charging sheet.

  
They had gone to see Prudence’s mother together, he and Morse. The home was a quiet one: still and somber, a small house on the outskirts of town whose austere, whitewashed tidiness belied its poverty. Prudence’s mother had left a bad marriage while still very young, and Prudence had been her only child. She welcomed them into her parlor, seated them on the threadbare sofa, and got them each a glass of lemonade. There was an embroidered sampler reading “God Bless and Welcome Thee, Stranger” hanging crookedly over the mantel, but this appeared to be the home’s only decoration.

  
The detectives sat and sipped their lemonade in uncomfortable silence. Thursday felt Morse go oddly still beside him, though with a sort of tension through his slim frame — a suppressed intensity. His quiet drew Thursday’s gaze, but it wasn’t the moment for questions. He was there to explain why Prudence would not get her day in court.

  
“There just wasn’t enough evidence to make it a solid case,” he said gently. “The Crown Prosecution Service didn’t want to over-extend itself. I know that probably doesn’t feel very persuasive to you, but the other charges will keep Engel under lock and key for the rest of his natural life, Mrs. Hollowell. He’ll never be able to hurt another girl. I hope in time that will be some solace to you.”

  
Mrs. Hollowell smiled wanly. She tucked a strand of faded red hair behind her ear. “Of course. It is a great comfort, Inspector. I know you tried your best for my little girl. Thank you, detectives. Thank you.”

  
There wasn’t much more to be said. Thursday did his best to answer her questions, but soon Mrs. Hollowell passed on her best wishes and gratitude to the rest of the officers at Castle Gate, and it was clear she wanted to be left alone to settle the day’s news in her mind. 

  
Morse was silent all the way back to the nick. Silent through lunch. Silent through the afternoon. And just at five o’clock, as Thursday was packing up his things to go home, Morse walked into Thursday’s office and went off like a bomb.

  
“Engel did it,” he said, eyes blazing. “He killed her. And we’re just going to let him get away with it.”

  
The case had taken its toll on both of them in recent weeks. Thursday should have remembered that - he should have remembered how hollowed out and brittle the boy was inside. But he didn’t.

  
“Thought you might be stewing," said Thursday with a roll of his eyes. "Can’t let anything go, can you? Right on schedule.”

  
“Let it go?” cried Morse. “This isn’t for me to let go, sir.”

  
“He’ll be off the streets. He won’t hurt anyone ever again, Morse. That’s called a good result.”

  
He shook his head. “It’s not enough. This is about Prudence. This is about her mother.”

  
“For the last time, Morse,” said Thursday, exasperated. “The QC can’t go before the jury and talk about patterns and modus operandi and what have you to Oxfordshire’s salt of the earth. Make them skittish and you put all ten cases at risk - not just Prudence, but all of them. Is that what you want? We’ve got to have hard evidence and we don’t. That’s it. That’s the end of the road.”

  
“Do we only charge people with murder if it’s easy now?” demanded Morse. “Only easy victories are wanted, is that it?” He began to cough. It was a raw, hacking, percussive sound - a bark that had exasperated the entire office over the past month. Morse just hadn’t been able to shift it. Nor had the boy taken anyone’s advice about it either. Not DeBryn’s, not Mr. Bright’s, and certainly not Thursday’s. His cheeks had pinked while the rest of him looked pale, but still a stubborn frown carved his forehead, and his eyes gleamed with distemper.

  
“You’ve never made anything easy in your life,” snapped Thursday, fed up. It wasn’t his responsibility to soothe a boy who refused to be soothed. He reached for his coat and began to walk out. “Go home,” he said. “Get some rest. Back at it again tomorrow. Learn to have some perspective, for God’s sake.”

  
“I don’t want perspective on a failure.”

  
“Damn it, that’s enough,” growled Thursday, rounding on him. “We’ve done our best around here - “

  
Morse made a sound of disgust at the back of his throat. “Our best,” he scoffed. “Oxford’s _finest_.”

  
That made Thursday’s eyes narrow. “That’s right,” he said, voice low and withering. “And that includes you, Detective Sergeant Morse. Or don’t you consider yourself one of this lot here? Too good for us flatfoots, are you? Don’t forget you couldn’t pin Prudence Hollowell’s murder on Engel either, no matter how hard you tried, no matter how big a brain you’ve got.”

  
Morse’s face fell - a sudden unmasking. He stood there wide-eyed, mouth rather poignantly agape. He blinked, once, twice. His thin chest rose and fell visibly, as if the air had been stolen from his lungs.

  
Regret flooded through Thursday’s veins, hot and instant. But in the moment, the shame of his outburst only goaded him to dig his heels in further. “Well,” he said with a sniff. “It’s home time for the rest of us coppers. Strange will drive me. You do what you want.”

  
Morse’ didn’t move as Thursday strode past him out into the bullpen and called for Strange. He still stood there, head bowed, hands clasped behind his back, when Thursday last glanced back.

  
That was that. That was how they parted ways.


	2. Chapter 2

Thursday frowned at Morse’s empty desk.The young detective was often late - it wasn’t unusual for him to show up in the morning with a sheen of sweat on his brow and yesterday’s shirt rumpled beneath his jacket, trying to downplay the hurry that had got him there.But it was only ever by a few minutes.A quarter hour’s bad habit at most.For him to be later to the station than the Guv’nor himself was an unusual breach of etiquette. 

It rankled. 

Morse was a detective sergeant now, with men looking up to him to set a good example.It didn’t suit for him to go off in a pout like a moody college student.Those days needed to be behind him. 

“Not in yet, then?”He nodded his head toward where his bagman ought to have been.“In a strop, is he?”

“Having a lie in probably, sir.He hasn’t been well,” said Strange. 

The words pricked Thursday’s conscience, but he had still not resigned himself to let the boy off the hook.When Morse inevitably slouched into the office, sheepish, sliding into his seat like he was trying to pretend he’d been there all along, they would have to hash out the whole business all over again.There were lessons that needed to be learned.“Send him in when he gets here,” said Thursday, and he shut his office door hard enough to rattle. 

At half ten, they began to make their arrangements for that morning’s arrest.Thursday made a few preparatory calls to Division and to Professor Engel’s solicitor.None of this was intended to be a surprise to anyone; the arrest, like the legwork and evidence that had gone into it, had been meticulously prepared.Thursday put on his coat, then stowed the envelope containing the charging documents into a deep pocket.He turned to find Strange, also in his coat and scarf, standing on the threshold. 

Thursday had expected to see Morse by now.In fact, he’d expected him to be lurking just beyond Strange’s shoulder, looking repentant.But Strange was alone. 

“Does Morse _want_ to make me put him on the spot, then?” growled Thursday, out of patience.“Fine. He can try me.If Morse is any kind of friend of yours, Strange, you’ll get him down here in twenty minutes or he’ll be on point duty til Kingdom Come, make no mistake.” He was putting on his hat before he noticed Strange’s rather odd, closed-off expression.“What?What’s wrong?”

“It’s Professor Engel.He’s here, sir.At the station.”

Some movement beyond Strange’s shoulder caught Thursday’s eye, and he saw that there was a flurry of activity and whispered conversation among the detective constables out in the bullpen.Some of them were gesturing toward Thursday’s office, as if the Guv’nor himself were the topic of these whispers. 

Thursday frowned.“Is Mr. Bright in his office?”

“No, sir.He’s up at Division.Won’t be back until after lunch.”

“Well,” said Thursday.“If Engel wants to show up early to his own arrest, let him.Bring him up, Sergeant.”

But Strange didn’t move.“There’s something else, sir.”He hesitated, licking his lips.“Engel…he’s wearing a mask.”

Thursday blinked. 

“Some kind of —”The sergeant made a helpless, vague gesture in front of his face.“It looks old.Really old.A face like the devil, sir.” 

“You’re having me on.”

“Honest to God, sir.I don’t know what it is….But it ain’t natural.”Jim Strange looked far too spooked for any of this to be some sort of lark.

“Engel’s acting normal otherwise?” 

“Calm as you please.But he says he’ll only speak to you, sir.Alone.The boys are all pretty rattled, sir…”

“Keep them away then.I don’t need the men hanging about like a flock of frightened geese.But you stay within earshot.And send someone to find Morse, for God’s sake.He’s needed.”

A few moments later, the sergeant returned from the lobby with Fred Thursday’s eminent visitor.Typewriters quieted.Detective constables parted in silence, letting Jim Strange lead the man through their midst to where the DI stood waiting in front of his office door.

All whispers hushed as if watching the rise of a curtain at a play. 

Thursday had met Engel before, yet he was always more than a little shocked to remember the sheer spindly height of the man.He had to be six and a half feet tall, and his cadaverous gauntness only seemed to add to his height as if his whole body had been extruded through a keyhole.His limbs had an oddly tensile elegance and clockwork movement to them, far more like spider’s legs than human. 

He was wearing the the long, black, formal buttoned-down subfusc of a fully-fledged don.The ensemble was elderly - something out of the 1930s perhaps, or even an Edwardian relic, but not entirely out of the ordinary in a town that counted in centuries, not decades.He was employing a walking stick - a heavy, ebony thing topped with a silver death’s head.He clomped and dragged the thing as he made his way with slow, unhurried, loping strides.

But it was none of this eccentricity that had caused the hush among the officers.None of this strangeness had inspired the abject, open-mouthed stillness of ten grown detectives. Instead, it came from the simple but stunning fact that the man was wearing a mask.Black as tar and covering his entirely head and neck, the mask had dark, mirror-like goggles where eyes should have been, and a monstrous hooked beak like an overgrown crow. 

“Ah.Inspector,” said this creature.“How delightful to see you again.”

It was madness.

“Professor Engel,” said Thursday, voice carefully neutral.“What’s all this, might I ask?”

The masked head tilted on its spindly shoulders.“My solicitor tells me that my arrest — for multiple murders, dear me — is imminent.How shall we mend this gross misunderstanding, my dear Inspector?Let’s clear the air, shall we? In fact, where’s that clever young sergeant of yours?Might not he make us a nice pot of tea while we talk it over?"

“I’ll have someone send it up, sir,” said Strange quietly. 

“Ah.Good.Good,” said Engel.“This is the time of year for tea is it not?The turning of the year.A terrible time for head colds and arthritis.”The creature chuckled as he dragged and spindled his way into Thursday’s office and made himself comfortable.

“About your business, Constables,” barked Thursday to the room at large.The men ducked their heads and the sound of half-hearted typing slowly pecked back into being.Thursday turned to follow his outlandish visitor, but first he grabbed Strange by the arm.“Get Morse.I want to know the meaning of all this nonsense.”

Strange nodded tightly and practically fled the scene. 

Thursday returned to his desk, slowly, nonchalantly - but still walking with as much of a wide berth around the Crow in his office as possible, as if the creature were a harbinger of doom, or a victim of the plague, or perhaps an unexploded bomb. 

“A fine day, Inspector.A fine day.I look forward to the Autumn every year.The fire baskets in the college courtyards, burning bright with pine and pitch.The skeletal leaves skittering across the cobbles.The scent of autumnal smoke and decay.The red leaves, Inspector.The red.”A chuckle as something seemed to occur to him.“If we were still poetical young men, we might call it the season of slow, exsanguinated death.”

Thursday exhaled slowly.“Can you remove that mask please, Professor.”

“Mask?”

For a second Thursday feared that he meant to deny that he was wearing any such thing.But then he said: “Oh ho, no.I don’t think it’s time for that yet, Inspector.Everything in its season.”

The veteran copper had seen a lot in his day.Madness.Evil.Wickedness.Malice.He’d battled in North Africa and Italy, fought his own neighbors in Mile End, struggled for something better in Oxford.It was rare he came across something that really frightened him — and he was not about to admit the possibility that today would be that day. 

Thursday took a deep breath. “What brings you to the station today, Professor?”

"I have a bargain to strike with you, Inspector. One that will interest you _immensely_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What in the world is this fic.


	3. Chapter 3

Fred Thursday took his pipe out of his pocket, hit the bowl twice against the heel of his palm, and reached for his pouch of tobacco.“If you don’t mind, of course…” he said, droll even at this moment of madness.

“Not at all, Inspector.Not at all.”

The copper kept half an eye on the masked creature as he tamped down the fragrant loose leaf, taking his time to light a match and draw deep breaths through the stem. “This bargain, then,” said Thursday, nodding his head at him.“I’ve already got a set of encyclopedias.Can’t say I’m really in the market.”

The Professor laughed. 

The sound caused an involuntary shiver to travel up Thursday’s spine.It was a strange thing to see someone laugh without their body moving at all — a stranger thing still to hear laughter coming from a beaked, goggled face.The mask appeared to be made of some sort of waxed black leather, and as Strange had said, it was clearly very old.It was mapped and fissured with brittle cracks, having dried out with the centuries, and its black glass goggles had an iridescent sheen to them where the glass was succumbing to chemical breakdown. 

The man was like the walking embodiment of decay. 

Thursday squinted at him.“You know, we have met before,” he said slowly.“On more than one occasion.I’ve seen your face plenty of times.There’s no need for the dressing up box.Why don’t you take that off and we can chat, man to man.”

“_You charge me to return and change my shape_?” recited the cultured voice from behind the mask.“_Am I too ugly to attend on thee_?” 

Thursday swallowed.This was all a bit rich.He had the sense that he was being mocked, but he had no way of placing the quotation.He glanced over the creature’s subfusc-draped shoulder to where Jim Strange stood beyond the closed glass door of the DI’s office.Arms crossed, brow wrinkled, and not able to help looking a little befuddled, Strange seemed even more than usual like a worried Labrador.And there was still no Morse beside him. 

Thursday exhaled carefully.“You can do as you like for now,” he said, calm and non-reactive.“What was this deal you say you want to offer me…”

The man leaned in closer.“You see, Inspector.I don’t want to go to prison.I want to continue my great work.”

“Your career of murder, you mean?”

“Dear me, no.I am entirely innocent of these sordid charges.I refer to my illustrious career as an anatomist of the human body.I study what makes us live, Inspector Thursday.And, naturally: what makes us die.”The mask was awfully close now, its owner leaning far over the desk.His long fingers in his black gloves were splayed on the desk, and the lenses of his goggles flashed.“What if I offered you the power of life over death?”

“The power of life over death,” said Fred Thursday severely, “is not yours to offer.”

“You don’t like hypotheticals do you?” said the fiend, chuckling. “You’re a man who deals in results, not ideals.In brass tacks, not castles in the sky.Very well.I’ll tell you a bit about my work, shall I?” 

The man’s crow-like head tilted on his neck.There was a faint smell in the air.Something sickly and sweet, the faint scent of herbs or perfume, like the stale cloying sweetness of lavender and rot.“Did you know that the body of a young man might contain 4.7 to 5.5 liters of blood?That’s more than a gallon.His heart pumps it through his body at a rate of about 80 beats per minute.But say our young man is injured and begins to bleed.There are not enough red blood cells carrying oxygen to his brain, and his synapses begin to misfire.For a time, there’s a beautiful storm of activity in his dying mind: words, music, painful remembrances, glorious visions — some people remember their whole lives in those last moments.It’s that time that I am most interested in, Inspector.The time I have spent so many hours observing closely, in rapt attention and appreciation, to hear the gems that drop from their lips.That Autumn of the mind.When the leaves turn to gold, and scarlet, and then wither and die and drift to the ground.It’s a sort of cerebral fire.Ensanguining the sky.A place past touch.And sight.And sound.Not further to be found. So hopeless under ground. Falls the remorseful day.”He tilted his head at Thursday and said suddenly:“Did you know he thinks of you as a father?”

There was a sensation like the walls caving in. Thursday's eyes locked onto the masked face in abject horror. "Ahh — ahh God — ” 

“I’m not sure how aware of it he was himself,” mused Engel, and then: “But where was I in my explanation?Ah yes, the example of our injured young man.We left him bleeding, his life’s blood hemorrhaging.And eventually, alas, no matter how brave and courageous is our young man’s heart, it will slow to a stop.In the end, his whole life has been reduced to a mere calculation: of heartbeats per minute, blood volume, and time.”

“What — what have you done? _What have you done_?” 

Without answering, the fiend began to pull at the fingertips of one glove.The leather came away, revealing long pale knobby fingers like the hands of a wax dummy.There was red all around the nail-beds, a rusty color in the lines of his knuckles.Then the professor began to undo the buttons of his subfusc.He was wearing a white shirt beneath the black gown.There was red on it - spattered.Bloody. 

“I give you my terms, Inspector.In exchange for destroying the evidence you have against me, I offer you the power to save one human life from the jaws of certain death.”


	4. Chapter 4

There was a sensation of falling, of the world caving in on itself. His vision swam and blurred, then quickly sharpened with adrenaline.He had got to his feet without realizing, knocking over a cup of pencils. His hands had balled themselves into fists so tight his own nails were clawing the insides of his palms.“Tell me,” he said, his voice low and hoarse, a strained unsteady whisper.“You bastard.You devil.What have you done to him?_What have you done_?”

The fiend made a calming gesture with both of his blood-etched hands.“Think think think,” he said, like the ticking of a clock.“He might be the brains and you the brawn, but now you must consider carefully.Your boy doesn’t have time for hesitation or mistakes.We must get down to business.”

“If he dies I’ll tear you limb from limb,” snarled Thursday.“How’s that for a bargain?”

“Come now, that’s no good to either of us,” tutted the fiend.“I have no doubt you’ll keep your word, but what then?I’ll be dead and you — dear old Fred Thursday — you’ll have lost your soul.You’ll be a wandering shell of a man.A dangerously bitter old flatfoot, broken and bereft without the boy who played the role of Good Angel on his shoulder.Endeavour has dragged you back from the pit before.He’s saved you more than once. And now must thy Good Angel leave thee?”

Thursday sucked in a juddering breath.“How — how do you…?"

“It’s part of my genius to interpret the memories of the dying.I look into their eyes, I listen to their delirium.I read the deepest darkest secrets in their last and most vulnerable moments, as their thoughts burn out like dying embers.This is the dark magic that I have honed.The dark magic that I practice.Others just play at reading tea leaves.” 

With fear spurring him, the old copper found his strength in anger: “There’s nothing special about you, Engel.You’re just a filthy jumped-up murderer, as dirty and common as a toadstool.Just like all the other villains I’ve put away.We’ll find him._Damn_ your bargain.We’ll find him.” 

Thursday looked sharp to where Strange still stood beyond his office window.The sergeant’s broad back was turned, his attention distracted by a uniformed constable.

The black robed creature suddenly rose to his feet, his academic gown rustling like black feathers.His shocking height first towered over the Inspector, then lunged forward.He planted his hands down hard on the desk, long fingers stretching out.“Think think think,” he said again, voice hard and fast.“You forget that only I know how much time your precious young sergeant has left.And only I know where he is.You will not find him in time.He will bleed out, all alone, unless you strike a deal to save his life.” 

Thursday again shot a glance at Strange, who was drifting out of his line of sight, talking to the other constables in the bullpen. 

“It was Morse who came to see me you know,” said Engel quietly.“Like a lamb to slaughter.”

Thursday’s eyes snapped back to the creature.The mask revealed nothing — there was no humanity to appeal to behind those glass lenses.The fiend went on quickly, almost rhythmically, holding Thursday rapt:“I admit I was surprised to see him.I was at my secluded retreat, a place I go for meditation and quiet, where I expected to spend my last hours of freedom alone.I was not aware your boy even knew where to find me, yet there he was: pale, shivering with fever, eyes over-bright. An ecstatic martyr to his work.The burden of Prudence Hollowell’s unavenged murder had burned him up inside. He was ill, yet his conscience had driven him out into the morning mists.He was there to beg me to confess — for her mother’s sake.To confess!”

“What did you do to him?” demanded Thursday.“Tell me!Tell me where to find him!”

“T_he stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike_.Hadn’t you better agree to our bargain?Or don’t you care for the boy at all?” 

“Enough of this madness,” growled the copper.“Enough!”

The creature was staring down, his monstrous head tilted to the side at an almost forty-five degree angle, like he was a great crow trying to peer inside the veteran’s mind.His corpse-like hands were splayed on Thursday’s desk, palms flat, fingers long and straight.There was blood under the nails like gardeners have dirt.“I stabbed him, Inspector,” he said, quite matter-of-fact, ignoring the flinch and pall that came over the old copper’s face.“And do you know, I am so glad that I did? Your boy has a beautiful soul.Pained, sensitive, cryptic, and so unwillingly revealed — truly he was worthy of my talents as an interpreter.A most rewarding challenge.” 

The detective inspector could only gape, breathless, horrified — for a moment he was entirely exposed, and the creature took this vulnerable moment to twist the knife deeper. “As your boy’s eyes were pooling with tears that he was trying oh so hard not to shed, I could feel how upset he was at what I had done to him.But it wasn’t just about the pain.Or the blood.He was distressed at the Injustice.As if I had betrayed his sense of how the world should be.Dear me, what a very poignant, almost childlike, trait to discover in a homicide detective.I was touched.I felt as if I had found a precious diamond in the rough.”

Thursday had turned away, eyes tightly closed.With the back of his hand pressed to his mouth, he gave a low groan as if he might be sick.

“Think think think, Inspector,” said Engel, like a diabolical ticking clock.“Heartbeats per minute, blood volume, and time.”

“You — you have to tell me how to save him — please — “

“Our bargain?” 

Thursday’s head swam at the thought.Could he really contemplate striking such a deal?It was an appalling thing to do — those nine women would never get justice, a diabolical serial murderer would be set loose on the streets, and a horrific precedent for extorting the police would be irrevocably set.“I —I can’t make that deal,” said Thursday desperately.“You know I can’t.”

“Then let him die.” The creature’s voice was cold and biting, as if there were sharp teeth bared behind the mask.“Let him die.Let him die.I’ll be in prison for the other murders regardless, who cares about one more?I’ll weep for myself and the loss of my work, not for him.Let him die.Let him die.”

“No — no,” pleaded Thursday.“Engel, you can’t —!”

“Were you even worthy of him?” demanded the creature.“That beautiful delicate soul, loyal to this miserly brutish earthbound old fool?He spent his last hours worried that you were disappointed in him._Disappointed_ that he couldn’t rub along with his colleagues, _angry_ that he always stood apart like a misfit, _disgusted_ that he was always so difficult to handle.No matter how hard he tried, no matter how big a brain he’s got, you still considered him a failure…”

“Stop — _stop_.” 

With his eyes tight shut, Thursday turned away.He covered his face with his trembling hands.He took several deep, racking breaths.

“Our bargain?”

“I’ll do it,” he said. 


	5. Chapter 5

“Do you swear on your boy’s life?”

The question was too painfully apt.All of this was already weighing on the delicate thread of Morse’s life. Thursday saw the boy’s face in memory: the naked hurt of the previous day as he stood before him — faded and ill and care-worn— deserving of far more understanding than the kick in the teeth Thursday had given him instead. 

“I swear,” said Thursday heavily.“But I need your word in return.I need to know…. Engel, if I’m going to do a thing like this I —I need to know — ”

Engel raised his hands, the spidery fingers eloquent with deprecation.“Oh do but think, Inspector!Why would I want him to die?If you destroy the evidence for the nine murders, and Endeavour lives, it leaves me with only one measly little assault to my name.And I’m a renowned eccentric, don’t you know,” he said with a giggle, cocking his monstrous, beaked head, his blank-eyed goggles seeming to stare at some point far beyond the room.“I’m sure my clever solicitor will be able to argue that my attack on the boy occurred while the balance of my mind was disturbed. Endeavour probably terrified me into lashing out.Your boy doesn’t have a stellar reputation after all.He’s abrasive.He’s difficult.Dear me, Inspector, you think so yourself.”

Thursday could practically feel the toothy smile behind the mask as the professor went on in a purring contralto: “I’ll be out of prison in less than a year.Might even be released on my own recognizance before long.I’ll be free.Free again to continue my magnificent work…”

Thursday dragged in a deep breath and turned away, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth.The disgust and horror he felt with himself and this whole mad situation was too painful to bear.He knew that if Morse lived through this day, the boy would never get over this.He would never believe himself worthy of such a steep price. It would burn him up from the inside.

But what choice was there?Today he would save Morse from Engel, even if it meant tomorrow he would have to save Morse from himself.

“Your word on it,” growled the Old Man, his face as hard as granite.“I need your word.”

“And you have it, Inspector.” With a languid, almost luxuriating satisfaction, Engel leaned back in his chair and steepled long fingers still stained with Morse’s blood.“Ahh, there now: that’s a bargain well-struck.We shall both emerge with what we most desire.Let us go to the evidence room then, and without a moment’s delay.For your poor child’s sake.He’s already suffered so grievously…Heartbeats per minute, blood volume, and time…”

Thursday strode past him, reaching for the exit.Jim Strange was coming over to meet him— Thursday could see him through the window in the door, a question upon his honest face. 

“O_ne moment, Inspector_."

Thursday’s hand was on the door knob, his face tight, mouth set.He did not turn.The scent of sweet lavender rot that emanated from the diabolical mask seemed to crawl toward him on the strength of long, unseen fingers.

“If that oafish Sergeant Strange or anyone else at this station prevents you from fulfilling your half of the bargain, I will not help you.The crows and carrion-creatures shall find your lost child before you do.You will have only bones to mourn.Am I quite, _quite_ clearly understood?”

Thursday nodded once.

“Away we go, then.Not a moment to lose.After you, my dear Inspector.”

The detective twisted the door knob.He was out among his fellow policemen again, with the sounds of softly mundane conversation and distracted typing.The air was fresh: someone had opened a transom to let the cold Autumn morning in.There was a faint trace of stale coffee.The cloying lavender fug was already behind, and it felt like passing from a fever dream back into reality.But then the clomp and drag of Engel’s heavy walking stick began to follow along behind him — and he knew it was real, and knew that the fiend would be watching hawk-like for any sign that the coppers of Castle Gate Station would prevent his masterstroke from coming to fruition. 

Head down, Thursday tried to barrel right past Strange, but the big sergeant Strange moved to intercept him.“Everything alright, sir?”

“Fine.Fine.I’ll see him out.”

“We’re not arresting him?”Strange’s gaze was torn between his Guv’nor and the far taller creature behind him, his darting eyes looking both worried and overawed.“Thought you said — ?”

Thursday could feel sweat prickling along his scalp and upper lip.He could feel the eyes of all of Castle Gate upon them.He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his face.“Change of plans,” he said.“I’ll explain later.”

“But what about — ”

“I’ll explain later.Just let us pass, Sergeant." His tone made it clear it was an order.

Strange’s look of worry deepened into suspicion.He paused a moment but stepped aside, allowing them to pass.

The next few moments passed with a sense of cracked reality: riding in silence down the lift to the evidence room with a man wearing the goggle-eyed mask of an overgrown bird. A man who murdered young women. A man who had taken a wrecking ball to all Fred Thursday held sacred and dear in his work — a man who might have already killed Endeavour Morse.

The lift doors opened. They walked in silence down the linoleum-lined corridor to the evidence room, and Thursday used his DI’s keys to let himself in.He signed the log — nobody else could be left to bear the responsibility of this; he would sign his own name to it and be damned for it need be—but Thursday could hardly spare a thought for that now.He turned on the overhead fluorescent, let it flicker twice, then got out the archival box of evidence against Professor Mortimer Engel.

There was a brooch belonging to the first victim.A tortoiseshell comb belonging to the second.A little stuffed kangaroo — a memento of Susan Wren’s childhood in New South Wales.A much-loved and hand-annotated copy of _Pride & Prejudice_ that Emily Hughes had taken to Oxford with her.Cecilia Martinez’s biology notebook containing an advanced draft of her thesis.Liv Olsen’s gloves.Margaret Daley’s Fair Isle scarf that she had knitted herself.Padma Gupta’s diary detailing how she had fallen in love for the first time. Christine McCarthy’s letter to her grandmother in Kilkenny, forever unposted. 

Thursday stared at it all.“Ah, God….”

All these women.Their lives cut short for this madman’s delusions of grandeur, their dreams destroyed.These items were all that kept some part of them alive. As long as these things existed, they could reach out from beyond the grave and point a righteous finger at the devil who had stolen away their futures — and here was Thursday, that same devil on his shoulder, intent on destroying the only testimony that could give them retribution. 

“I — I can’t,” he said. 

“Then he’s dead already,” said Engel.

Thursday's chest heaved as he struggled to breathe through the crushing emotion, the vertiginous sense of failure and guilt and conflict.His vision swam, but even through the tears, he could make out the quick, determined strokes of Endeavour Morse’s handwriting in front of him.

It was on every evidence tag. Morse had gathered all this evidence almost single-handedly. He had talked to every victim’s family repeatedly, spending hours with their parents for long, emotionally-draining conversations about their lost daughters and sisters. Morse had then searched Engel’s house — his rooms at college, his lab, his car, even his family estate in Berkshire — and come away with the hard-won contents of this box as surely as if the spirits of those women had whispered where he might find these last traces of themselves. 

Engel surely would have gone to prison thanks to Morse’s careful work. The boy had poured all of himself into this case, had fretted himself sick over it, believed in it.Lived it.Was dying for it. 

And Fred Thursday was here to destroy it. 

With shaking hands, the old copper reached into his pocket for his matches.He ripped some pages out of Emily’s book, stuffed them under the only copy of Cecilia’s brilliant thesis, and lit the box aflame. 

“Forgive me…” he said. And he felt like he was the one murdering them.

As the flames curled and blackened and destroyed what remained of nine vibrant lives, Engel said cheerfully: “Holywell Cemetery.My family mausoleum.He has twenty-seven minutes.”


	6. Chapter 6

Gray and damp with an uncertain chill — the morning was frigid in the shadows, touching the tips of his nose and fingers with frost, yet humid in a way that kept his face slick with sweat.It rolled down the sides of his face, the salt of it getting into his eyes to be dragged away angrily with the sleeve of his coat.

It was at least fifteen minutes’ drive to Holywell Cemetery. 

The horizon had blended away into mist, the autumn colors of the trees blazing in front of the gray like torches.Gold.Scarlet.Red.Crimson.It all blurred together at breakneck pace, leaving Thursday with the impression that the countryside had been eaten up by cold fire and damp smoke.He entered Oxford City Centre, ignoring traffic signals.He leaned on the horn and cursed wildly at a herd of slow-moving Keble College students walking their bicycles across Parks Road.“Move!” he bellowed, leaning on the horn again.“Move, damn you!”

Sixteen minutes had passed.Seventeen minutes. 

Morse’s pale face flashed across his memory again — the hurt that he had put there; the way the boy’s blue eyes had gone wide and vulnerable, all of his brittle bluster ripped away.The way his gaze had then dropped to the floor, cheeks burning. 

What if those were the last words he’d ever have with the boy?

He could think of little else as he blazed through the sleepy college lanes, engine roaring.He took a wild, screaming turn into St. Cross Road and a whiff of burning rubber reached his nostrils, noxious as brimstone.He parked the Jag half up on the kerb in front of St. Cross Church, half still in the street, not even sparing a moment to do more than wrench the parking brake and fling open the door. 

The church was a low-slung combination of medieval tower and 19th century expansion, the cemetery next to it lying hidden behind a high flint-and-chalk wall.Thursday found the wrought iron gate, but to his dismay saw a thick steel chain binding it shut.His heart was pounding, his face drenched with sweat.He thought about trying to haul his bulk over the rusted wrought-iron, but the gate was too high, and there were spikes at the top.He would never make it.

Eighteen minutes had passed. 

_Think think think_, said Engel’s mocking voice in his head, _Heartbeats per minute, blood volume, and time._

He peered through the gate.He could see that the cemetery was overgrown with weeds and bracken, the tops of ornate, Victorian-era tombstones peeking crookedly over tall grass.There was a smell of burning leaves from somewhere nearby: that essence of Autumn, earthy and sweet and full of pungent decay.He spied the yellow walking cap of an elderly sexton as he raked a pile of leaves into the smoky fire.“You there!” shouted Thursday.“You there!”

The man didn’t seem to hear. 

Nineteen minutes…

The old copper gripped the wrought iron and gave the blasted thing an enraged shake, punctuated with curses both wild and incoherent.“God damn it,” he snarled, and with all his baritone might he bellowed: “You there!Police business! Open this gate!Open this gate now!”

The flustered sexton was hurrying over.He fumbled for his ring of clanking skeleton keys and dropped it.The copper felt a wave of nausea.He was going to be too late.He was going to arrive in time to find Endeavour Morse dead, his body not even cold.

“What’s this all about?” said the sexton, alarmed.He finally had the right key. 

“I need to see a mausoleum — the Engel family — ”

“Professor Engel’s family?Just like that young copper this morning…?”

“That young copper is badly hurt, do you hear?” said Thursday.“Call an ambulance.This is an emergency.Call an ambulance!”

“Y-yes, yes, of course, sir…” The gate swung open with a squeal of rust. 

“Where’s the mausoleum?”

The old man pointed.“Southeastern corner.All the way at the back.There’s a path through the grass.The professor comes here often…”

Thursday took off running. 

The trail through the cemetery was as slim as a deer track: just a glimpse of leaf-plastered earth through the tall grass.There were rows of mausoleums near the back of the cemetery: all Classical grandeur, blackened and uncared for, the marble eroding, the faces of weeping angels and grief-stricken saints looking twisted with madness as their features wore away, leaving only staring blank eyes and mouths filled with rainwater.Running between them, the old copper huffed and panted as his eyes darted around, looking for the name of Engel. 

“There,” he panted, spying it at last.“There!” 

It was in a grove of willows.It was the only Gothic-style building among the Classical rubble and it looked like a cathedral in miniature.A central nave under a carved tower, two aisles on either side.The front door was partially open.Just a crack. 

The interior echoed.Stained glass windows admitted faint rays of colored light into the dimness of the tomb.There were several rows of marble tombs with the effigies of Victorian ladies and gentlemen carved in 13th century style.At the apse, there were two shallow steps that led up to a simple stone alter.A pair of crows were standing on it, curiously turning their heads at the copper. 

The place was empty.Empty except for the sleeping dead. 

“Morse?” Thursday cried, voice thick.“_Morse_?” 

There was no answer. 

The old copper stood trembling, panting and sweating.His mind was reeling.Had Engel been lying to him? Was Morse somewhere else?Dying cold and alone, perhaps never to be found?

Or — perhaps —none of Engel’s mad tale had even been true? 

Thursday felt dizzy, sick.His vision swam.“Oh God…."

Had he really sold his soul to the devil and still lost everything?

At that moment, there was a whisper — not a word, just a susurration of sound.A weakened voice pleading in the gloom, yet it went through Thursday’s bones like electricity.

Two long strides brought Thursday up the stairs to the altar.He rounded the corner. “_Jesus Christ_,” he moaned, and fell to his knees.


	7. Chapter 7

The boy was sitting with his back against the altar, long legs sprawled out in front of him, his head tilted absently to one side.Always pale, always delicate, his face had now lost all sign of warmth or life beneath the skin; only the feathered autumn russet of his hair and the dark lashes fanned over his cheekbones held any trace of color at all.

But there was blood — so much of it that Thursday’s vision swam with dizzy disbelief.Held behind Morse’s hands like a dam to a flood, the blood was darkest between his long poetical fingers, where it had welled like ink.A saturated handkerchief lay where it had fallen from his grasp.His clothes had been made gaudy by the blood, the floor around him an appallingly large puddle of dark, stilled, ruby red. 

Trembling, the old copper reached out.He cupped Morse’s face with both hands, gently supporting the weight of the boy’s lolling head. 

“Morse?” he whispered, voice thick.“Morse?Can you hear me, lad?”

In death, he looked almost childlike.All the tension and burden of intelligence had gone from his face.He was all long limbs and poignant angles.All lost potential.Just a bloodied rag doll.

Thursday stared and stared in staggered confusion, trying to make it not true.He shook the boy a little, gently, tenderly as if he might feel it.He called his name and caressed his tumbled hair.“God, Morse don’t do this….Come on, son.Morse?_Morse_?”

But there was nothing.And in that moment, Fred Thursday knew that the prickly, brilliant, perversely tender-hearted young man he had come to love as a son was truly gone. 

The Old Man gathered the boy into his arms — his vision hot and hazy — and rocked him slowly back and forth.He was too numb to cry; too disbelieving to bawl out the grief that he knew would soon tear out his heart.For now, his whole being just felt odd — disconnected, disbelieving, confused — he felt both overfull with emotion, and as distant from the scene as a kite high on a string. 

“You were too late, Frederick Albert Thursday,” said a voice behind him, as human as the cawing of a crow.“You were too late.”

Thursday did not look up.The Fiend was dragging itself slowly around the rows of mildewed Victorian sarcophagi: clomp, drag, clomp, drag.The temperature in the chilled marble room had dropped precipitously, the clammy chill of impending winter reaching out like goosebumps across Thursday’s flesh. 

“Too late by just a moment or two.Had you been sooner, you could have at least said goodbye — or said that you were sorry that you failed him.But that will go unsaid now.He went to eternity without human comfort, just as he went through life.”

Thursday closed his eyes tight.He buried his face against the boy’s soft tumbled hair, still damp with the perspiration of pain and fever, now turned as cold as Autumn dew.

“He died alone,” said the Fiend.“Alone and in terrible pain.Tormented by the idea that he had let everyone down, and you— the father figure he had chosen for himself — he had disappointed you most of all….”

Thursday hugged Morse’s body closer, gripped him tight in the paternal embrace they’d never shared in life.

“Everything you bargained away was for nothing.Emily Hughes.Cecilia Martinez.Padma.Liv.Margaret.Christine…”

The Old Man dragged air into his lungs.“Stop,” he said, his voice a broken whisper, his eyes still closed tight.“Please.Just leave us…”

The creature tsk’ed again. 

Distantly, through the howling emotion in his brain, Thursday registered the Creature’s heavy footfalls echoing around the mausoleum, the clomp and drag of its heavy death’s-head cane against the floor, the squawk of the crows that followed him like a cape of feathery darkness.The heavy iron door of the mausoleum swung open further, letting in a swirling breeze of autumn leaves and the feathery swish of flapping black wings.The clawed feet of ravens and blackbirds skittered on the marble altar above Thursday’s head, looking down without sympathy at the pieta of grief beneath them.

“What do you want?” said Thursday raggedly, each word pulled up with effort from the deep well of his grief.“What do you want from me?I gave you what you wanted.”

“Your boy was about to put an end to my great work,” said the Fiend — and its voice was like the rattling, slithering clank of a tightening chain.“The dark, magnificent work I had bargained away my own soul to do.I am a collector of souls, and he wanted to stop me.He wanted a full accounting of my deeds.For Justice’s sake!Truly he was on the side of the Angels.”

Thursday looked down into the pale, quiet face of his bagman.A tear fell from his cheek onto the boy’s brow, and he wiped it gently away.

“I want to know: was our bargain worth it?” The creature seemed to accept the sound of Thursday’s first racking sob as his answer, and it laughed. 

“You promised me twenty-seven minutes to save him,” said the broken Old Man, a spark of anger escaping his smothering shroud of grief.

“And it turns out it was less,” said the Fiend, and the crows cawed as if in a chorus of mockery.“You have only yourself to blame.He was weak from being ill.You hadn’t taken care of him.Besides.You’re the one who sold Justice for the price of the sand in an hourglass.”

Thursday felt sick.He looked around at Morse’s spilled blood in a haze of nausea.This was all his fault.All his fault.

“I have a new bargain to propose, Frederick Albert Thursday.I’ll give him back to you — whole, healthy, and unharmed.All of this washed away, blotted out, a mere waking nightmare.”

Thursday went perfectly still.He stared ahead, barely able to breathe.The air was cold and smelled of autumnal decay, but the creeping cloying scent of lavender was beginning to weigh upon the damp chill.Thursday cupped a trembling hand to his boy’s freckled cheek, imagining he could impart some warmth back into the cold clay.“What do you want me to do,” he said, voice choked. 

“I’ll give you his life,” said the Fiend.“If you let me have your soul.”

Thursday looked up. 

At that moment the crows and blackbirds leapt into airborne chaos; they flapped and screamed and flew into Fred Thursday’s face, knocking his gaze away from the thing that stood behind him like a shadow. 

“It’s a small price for his life,” said the Fiend.“Think of all the good he will do in this world.All the killers he’ll put away.All the wrongs he’ll put right.He has a great and eminent career ahead of him.All you have to do is save his life.”

“He — he wouldn’t want this,” protested Thursday.

“You rate your false sense of principle so highly?” it said. “You tired old man.You compromised old veteran.This bright young man will do more for this city than you ever did.All you have to do is sign away your chance at some nebulous afterlife you were never sure you believed in anyway.Simple, yes?On this mortal coil you call that _a good result_.”

Thursday was appalled.“I — I can’t.I can’t.”

“Haven’t you promised yourself that you would protect him at all costs?That you would do anything — _anything _for him_?_”

“Yes,” said the old copper, his face crumbling.“Yes…”

“You’ve come this far.You’ve burned your bridges.There’s no going back now.You’ll have a chance to save your boy, and the sacrifice of Justice you made of those murdered women will mean _something_.If you do nothing, you’ll have sown the wind and reaped the whirlwind.”

“No,” said Thursday roughly.“_No_.”

The crows began to stir uneasily. The Fiend was silent. 

“What gives you any power here?” said Thursday.“Go away and leave us.Go!” 

“You give me power, Frederick Albert Thursday.As long as you will listen to me,” answered the Creature.“As long as I have something you’re willing to bargain for.”

“I won’t bargain,” he said.“I won’t._He_ wouldn’t.I won’t.”

“Do you want to see what your principles can buy you?” snarled the creature.“Only sand in the hourglass.”And it laughed: the sound of hammer hitting anvil, the sound of bellows stoking flame.

And suddenly, the dead body in Thursday’s arms took a deep and convulsive breath. 

Like a puppet on a string, Morse’s body seemed to reanimate and return to mobility of its own accord — not with muscle and bone, but by some other force, a force that imbued him with all the uncertain, angular awkwardness of a newborn foal.He was sitting up on his own now, his head tilted uncomfortably to one side, his eyes opening in wide disbelief as tears ran freely down his face. He gasped and gulped air as if he had not breathed in years. The knife that had killed him was still buried to the hilt in his abdomen.The blood had begun to flow anew. 

“Shall we ask him if he wants you to make this deal?” said the Fiend.“Endeavour Morse, do you want to live?”

The sight of the strange fiendish creature made dark blood gurgle up from the boy’s mouth, spilling over his colorless lips.He began to cough weakly, convulsively.He fell forward, leaning heavily on his hands.

“Oh God…”Thursday reached out for Morse. 

“Don’t touch him,” hissed the Fiend. 

Morse groaned, horrified by the dark blood drooling from his mouth.His eyes were glazed with fever and pain and tears.He couldn’t stop coughing, making the blood flow harder.He sat back weakly, face crumpling with dismay at what was happening to him.“Sssir,” he moaned, horrified, trembling hand going to the hilt of the knife. 

“Don’t — don’t,” pleaded Thursday.“You need to leave it alone, Morse.Oh God,” he turned furiously to the fiend.“Let me go to him!Let me save him!” 

“You know how you can save him,” hissed the demon.“Ask him.Ask him if he wants you to save him!”

“I’ll — I’ll do anything,” said Thursday desperately.

Morse's face twisted with agony.He spat up a horrifying amount of blood, his whole body quaking with the effort of breathing and vomiting convulsively. His muscles trembled, rebellious with shock and weakness.

“Just stop this,” said Thursday, pleading with the Fiend.“‘Whole and healthy and unharmed' isn't that what you promised me?That’s what I want!”

Morse looked up at the creature, one eye half closed, one eye open. Like something not quite dead and not quite alive. “P-prr,” he said, raggedly, gurgling. “Prrudence…”

“Be quiet!” said the demon.

"What? What is it, Morse?" said Thursday, desperate to hear his sergeant's voice.

“Ssstill your mind, ssr,” said Morse, reaching out a bloody hand for his Inspector.“Sss-sssttill your mmmind… ”

“What do you mean?” 

“He stole from us, but not — nnnnot Prudence.Make him go away.Like she did.Sssstill your mmmmind.He has no power if you…give him none…”

“Silence!” hissed the demon.

“Prudence will speak for me,” said Morse faintly, looking up at the creature, full in the face now, both eyes gleaming with righteousness.“She ww-will speak for all of Engel’s victims.Ssstiill your mind, sir.”Morse fell to the floor, trembling, clutching his hands to the grievous wound in his side.He looked up at Thursday pleadingly as the light in his eyes began to dim.“Still…stilll your mind…” 

“Still your mind,” repeated Thursday.  "I - I understand, Morse. Still your mind..."

He gathered his son into his arms.He put pressure on the wound by pressing his hands over Morse’s own.

The boy’s irises were a glittery, feverish, faraway blue.“Mmm — mmm sssorry…ssir…let you down...”

“None of that now,” said the Old Man thickly, his vision going hot and hazy.“Don’t you dare apologise to me, you hear? None of that. None of that.”

The boy closed his eyes in acknowledgement, chasing a pair of tears down his cheeks.He was silent after that, too weak to wake again. He lay still and quiet, gathered in his surrogate father’s arms as Thursday touched his forehead to Morse’s. 

The old copper shut out the ratchet-voiced Demon as it wailed and cursed and protested. 

He thought of Prudence.He thought of Justice.He thought of his family -- and his adopted son.Then finally his mind went truly still, and he didn’t even hear the sound of sirens in the distance.


End file.
